The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  Toby carried on along the road, heading for the bend through the rocks.

  The postern's still open!" Hamish said. "We could ask."

  "Not a hope."

  "They may have left it open because they know we haven't been paid, and—"

  "Dreamer!"

  "Cynic! Why do you suppose it's open, then?"

  "If certain persons weren't always in such a rush to be first out of there every night, they would know that the postern's usually left open for an hour or two. The laird may be out riding, or men have gone fishing, or something. A blanket wearer like you would have to fight his way in."

  "Blanket wearer?" Hamish said in outrage. "Blanket wearer?" he screeched. "Is that what they call us?"

  "Haven't you heard them? It's no worse than—" But Toby was already running.

  Someone had cried out in the shadows ahead where the road bent. He could not see what was there, but he had heard enough—a deep voice angry, a shriller one being cut off suddenly.... His feet pounded on the dirt. It might just be two boys telling each other dirty stories, in which case he would just look foolish and no harm done. Or it might be dirty deeds, in which case the quicker the better.

  Fast as he ran, his mind raced faster. Everything was sharp and clear. It was not going to be boys telling stories. It was going to be rape and it was going to be a Sassenach doing it. Even as he came around the corner, the man forced the woman to her knees. Her efforts to scream were muffled by his hand over her mouth. He had his back to Toby, but was starting to turn to see who was coming. Moonlight flashed on his helmet.

  How did an unarmed man fight a soldier? Those doublets were so thickly padded they were virtually armor. Even Toby could punch at that until his knuckles fell off and not damage his opponent much. Fusiliers' helmets lacked face pieces, so there would be a chin to aim at, but that would be about all.

  How did an unarmed man fight a soldier? One thing he did not do was argue. Give the man a moment and he could draw his pistol or his dagger or his sword, and that would be the end of it. Toby did not have as much as a stick, but he could put his fist through a plank door. He must knock the man down with his first punch and hope to run off into the night with the woman. It was not a very noble prospect, but a safe flight into the darkness was the best he could hope for.

  The soldier was still partly stooped over her, but his head was coming around and Toby knew him. He also knew he outweighed Fusilier Godwin Forrester considerably. He shot a straight left to the jaw.

  It didn't work as planned.

  Meg screamed, "Toby! Get him, Toby darling!"

  Meg? He half-turned to her voice. Forrester ducked his head to offer his helmet. Toby pulled the punch before he smashed his knuckles. He careened into his opponent like a runaway wagon. They went down together. Although Toby was on top, he was winded more than his victim, landing on powder horn, pistol, bandolier—innumerable hard and sharp things stabbing at his chest. From helmet to breeches, Forrester was well padded. He was also a veteran fighter. His free hand clawed at Toby's face, fingers reaching for eyes. That tactic was not in the rules recognized by the glen.

  To save his sight, Toby had to bring up his hands. Forrester butted them with the metal brim of his helmet and jerked up his knee—a move that would have disabled a smaller man completely. Fortunately he misjudged and struck Toby's hipbone instead. One moment Toby had been on top and the aggressor, half a second later, he was rolling free, struggling to defend himself. He was a boxer, not a wrestler.

  Forrester lunged to his feet, his sword screeching out of its scabbard. Toby scrambled to rise, and his hand touched the musket lying on the grass. Before he was upright, the blade flashed at his head. He ducked under the stroke and sprang up holding the matchlock by its barrel. To fire it was out of the question—he did not know how, he had no powder and shot, he lacked the time. All the same, it was a usable weapon, a massive club of wood and steel longer than the saber. He parried the second slash: clang! The soldier had not expected that. The impact must have jarred his arm just enough to throw him off balance. Using his greater reach, Toby rammed the butt into the man's chest. The Sassenach went over like a weed.

  Forrester's limbs thrashed, but even flat on his back he could aim a slash at Toby's legs. Fortunately, it was slow and clumsy. Toby dodged it. His only hope now was to stun his opponent, grab the woman, and run like demons.

  The soldier rolled over, began to rise. Toby aimed at the helmet, swung with all his strength. At the last moment, pulling his legs under him, Forrester bent his head. The butt struck his neck with an impact that jarred Toby's teeth. Had he been using an ax, he would have cut the man's head clean off and buried the blade in the turf—but his victim would have died no faster.

  Evil had come to the glen. He had gotten into a fight, and terrible things were going to happen.

  TWO

  A Night to Remember

  1

  "Rapist!" Meg screamed, kicking furiously at the corpse. "Coward! Pick on a woman, would you, but you won't get up and fight with a man?" Kick, kick, kick... "Get up and fight!"

  Hamish stood like an icicle, his arms wrapped around himself and his face a white glimmer in the gloom. Hamish knew that Forrester's neck was smashed.

  "Meg!" Toby said.

  Meg went on yelling and kicking. There wasn't much of Meg Tanner, but she had a temper as big as Ben More. She could be louder than thunder at times, and this was one of those times. Her bonnet had fallen off, her two long braids swung like whips around her head as she kicked. "Tell him to get up, Toby! Pick him up and hit him! Show him!"

  Men were shouting in the distance. This bend in the road was not a blind spot for watchers in the castle, for it lay almost directly under the battlements. There was light enough yet, and the moon sailed in and out of the clouds. Then a bugle . . . The fight had been heard and seen, and the Royal Fusiliers would be here in minutes.

  Toby Strangerson had killed a Sassenach and terrible things would happen. He did not care. Let them happen! Filthy rapists! He had arrived in time, saved the woman. The toad had not had time to drop his breeches and Meg still had her clothes on, although her dress had been ripped open to the waist.

  Not a woman at all, just Meg Tanner, Vik's sister, only a kid. How could that putrid louse have tried to force himself on a child? Even if he'd only been trying to kiss her—and maybe that was all he had intended at first, because Forrester had never seemed like a monster—now he was dead. But he had ripped her dress, and that wasn't kissing. He had scared her out of her wits, and that wasn't kissing.

  "Come on, Toby!" Hamish was tugging at his arm. "We've got to get out of here!"

  Toby reached for Meg. "He's dead, Meg. Stop doing that."

  "Dead?" She shuddered and stopped doing that. Her chest heaved. Her chest was more visible than it ought to be and there wasn't much more than chest there. She was so little! Funny that this morning Vik had accused him of being involved with Meg and tonight he had saved her from, well, from whatever Godwin Forrester had been up to.

  Meg realized her dress hung open. She gasped and clutched it tight. "Dead? Well, good riddance! Serves him right! Monster! Bully!"

  "What are you doing here, Meg?" Just Meg? He still could hardly believe that a man would pick on a child like Meg.

  Hamish wailed. "Toby, they're coming!"

  Meg blinked. "Doing? I came to see you. Came to warn you."

  "Toby, come on!"

  "Warn me of what?"

  "Colin! Vik's given him a knife, it's full moon, I think he set him onto you....I came to warn you, silly!"

  "You promised I could hang on the same gibbet," Hamish said shrilly.

  Demons, oh demons! Toby glanced up at the silver globe floating through the clouds. Full moon. Well, he had much worse things to worry about than Crazy Colin, who was probably off in the hills somewhere, cutting up sheep.

  Lights, torches coming, voices ...

  "Come on!" he said, and began to run, hauling Meg al
ong with him. They would have to leave the road soon, but it would give them a start.

  Meg! Stupid, stupid little Meg! This would not be the first time she had turned up at the castle at sunset. He had walked her home more than once. He had not connected . . . Vik had noticed and he hadn't. Meg was a sweet kid, but only a kid—scrap of a thing, didn't come up to his shoulder, probably no older than Hamish, breasts like two muffins, wore her hair in long braids ...

  Stupid kid!

  They ran down the road, stumbling and reeling. He was almost carrying her, with a hand around her arm— his fingers closed around it.

  Had the Sassenachs found the body yet?

  He was a dead man for certain.

  "This way!" Hamish shouted, veering to the left, onto the path to Murray MacDougal's croft. They left the road. The moonlight faded out. They slowed down of necessity—no use breaking an ankle now.

  He had killed an English soldier. No traitor now. Even Vik ... Damn Vik! Terrible things. Worry about his own neck. No escape from the glen. The Sassenachs would ride him down in the hills. Who would look after Granny Nan?

  "Stop!" he said. They stopped. A moonlit glimmer ahead must be smoke from MacDougal's chimney. "Hamish, take Meg home ... Be quiet, Meg! Explain what's happened. You weren't there, friend. You didn't arrive until I'd done it, all right?"

  "They'll hang me anyway. Take me with you! Don't leave me to—"

  "No. Tell Meg's folks exactly what happened. Then go and tell your pa. Tell everything. The glen will stand behind you."

  It wouldn't stand behind Toby Strangerson, though. If he wasn't handed over right away, the Sassenachs would take hostages. Hamish was just a kid. Kids were hanged, too, of course, but if Hamish could disappear into hiding for a few weeks, until the English wrath subsided a bit, they might decide they would look foolish raising a hue and cry over a stripling like him and accusing him of hurting Forrester. Big brute Strangerson was a different matter. Granny Nan ...

  He forced his wits to come to order. "Hamish, take Meg home. Now! I have to go, and it's best you don't know where I'm going. Run, both of you."

  "Crazy Colin!" Meg squealed.

  "Never mind him! I'll give him what I gave the Sassenach. Now off with you! Thanks, Hamish. Good man. Relying on you."

  Right on cue, the moon floated into a lagoon between the clouds, and Toby began to run.

  He needn't go through the village. He could cut across country. Going home was rank stupid, but he must say good-bye to Granny Nan. He could survive a night in the hills in just his plaid at this time of year. The English would head for the cottage, but he could probably get there before them. They wouldn't push their horses in the dark; they'd stay on the road. He could go around.

  He knew the landscape like a spider knew its web. He followed trails from cottage to cottage, short-cutting over the fields, hurdling the fieldstone walls, jumping the burn, ramming through gorse thickets, alarming sheep, setting dogs to barking. Everyone would think it was Crazy Colin up to his tricks. The moon dipped in and out of the clouds.

  Rapist! Rotten Sassenach rapist scum! He thought of the other Meg and would have laughed had he the breath for it. So there was justice in the world sometimes? Nineteen years ago the English brutes had imprisoned one Meg Campbell and used her as their plaything for the winter. Now her bastard spawn had rescued another Meg Campbell. Justice! He had avenged his mother.

  There was a silver lining to all this—he must leave the glen now. However much Grannie Nan still needed him, he could be of no further help to her. Escape was what he had really wanted, wasn't it? Now he had it. Now he need not worry about the steward's slimy betting schemes.

  Go where? South, to lose himself in the crowded Lowlands? There was only one road south, and they would picket that first. Curse the moon!

  Or hide out for a day or two? There was one place in the glen where he might find sanctuary and no one would dare come hunting him. No one else would dare hide in the hob's grove, but the hob might agree to take him in if Granny Nan asked it. It might also forget who the intruder was, of course, and turn on him.

  Soon he needed all his brain just to keep moving, and could no longer work on the greater problems. The one thought that remained was that Granny Nan's hands couldn't grasp anymore. She couldn't milk Bossie. The first thing he must do when he got home was milk Bossie.

  2

  The trees around lightning Rock were almost the only trees in the glen. No one cut the hob's wood except Toby Strangerson, and he took only what Granny Nan told him to take, not a twig more. The cottage cowered on the edge of the copse, glowering under its shaggy sod roof and half hidden in broom. Shaking and panting, with the wind cold in his soaking hair, he staggered around, looking for Bossie. Even if she'd dragged her tether, she ought to be there in her shed, bellowing to be milked. There was no sign of her anywhere. He looked in the pens: no pig, no poultry. Just silence.

  Thinking was an impossible effort. He wanted to fall on the ground and sleep for weeks. No Bossie. The Sassenachs couldn't have gotten here yet. They wouldn't have taken the cow—not yet anyway.

  The shutter was closed. He could smell no smoke. With rising alarm, he lifted the latch and ducked through the doorway. A tiny fire glowed on the hearth, giving barely any light at all. It was just enough to show her white hair. She was huddled in her chair with her shawl over her lap. He fell gasping on his knees at her side, peering anxiously at her face.

  Her voice came softer than falling leaves. "It was a just fight."

  No need to tell; no need to explain or apologize. He dropped his head on her lap and panted. She laid a hand on his sweaty hair. The shutter rattled gently in the wind. Slowly his heart found peace.

  Once she murmured, "A good fight. You're a good man."

  He did not feel like a good man. He felt like a lost boy.

  How small she was!

  When he had his breath back: "I can't find Bossie."

  "Sold her to Bryce Twotrees. Sold the fowls."

  He looked up in dismay. A twig flared on the hearth. He saw the wrinkles of extreme age, the silver hair loose to her shoulders, the sad, wise eyes, the withered sadness of a smile. She was in her wits, apparently. He was the confused one....

  "Why—"

  "You must leave now."

  "But—"

  "Follow the others," she murmured. "So many leaving! Where do they all go? What happens to all the men? They leave the glen and they never return. The hob is worried."

  The hob was worried? How could a hob worry? And how could a solitary, friendless fugitive ever hope to escape in a bleak land like this—a man without a clan? But he mustn't distress her by mentioning that problem. He started to speak, she shook her head and he fell silent. He did not understand, but he often did not understand—even now, after a lifetime. She was not acting strange in the way she did so often now. Not crazy. Odd, yes, but a witchwife would always be odd. She had seen his confusion and was amused.

  "I made up a bundle for you. I put some money in it."

  "But—"

  "Shush!" Her voice strengthened. "You must hurry. You have far to go, but I can't see where. Here, I have this for you. Take it with you, keep it safe."

  He felt for her bony fingers, found something hard, about the size of the top joint of his thumb. It was cold, although she must have been clutching it. Her hand was cold, too. Firelight twinkled. It was one of her pretty stones.

  He mumbled thanks and dropped it in his sporran.

  "A just fight," she repeated. "Good man. I promised your mother. I've kept my promise."

  "What promise?"

  "Have to make your own name in the world. Your father didn't give you his.... Go now, boy. Good spirits preserve you, Toby! Hurry."

  "I can't just leave you here like this."

  "Hurry. I'll be taken care of. He'll be here soon."

  "Who will?" He peered closer, saw tears glinting in her eyes. Granny Nan? Never before had he seen her weep, even when she'd deli
vered stillborn babies.

  "You must go before he comes. They'll be after you! Go now!"

  "You're leaving, too? Who's going to look after the hob?"

  She chuckled. "I found someone! If the hob's happy, then you needn't worry, my little Toby, now need you?"

  "But. . . listen! They'll be looking for me tonight. If I can hide out for a few days—maybe wait until there's fog, or rain, or no moon... Would the hob let me—"

  "No! No! You mustn't!" She hissed and cocked her head. Then she pushed at his head. "Go! Go!"

  He heard it now, a sound of hooves, many hooves.

  Granny Nan wailed. "Too late!" she said. "Too late!"

  The English had come. The time for being a lost boy was over; now he must be a man. He heaved himself to his feet, aching in every bone and shocked at how much he had stiffened up. He was too tired to run more. He had had time to say good-bye, so it had been worth it, but he could run no more. He bent and kissed her, trying to mumble something of what he felt, but the words wouldn't come. She kept insisting he go, becoming fretful.

  Thinking this was the last time he would ever stoop under the lintel, he walked over to the door. Shivering in the cold air, he latched it behind him.

  From the thunder and shaking of the earth, there must be at least ten horsemen coming. They ought to know better! Sergeant Farmer had marched a squad past the copse once with drums beating, and half the men had been stricken with cramps, rolling on the ground and screaming. Where the hob was concerned, any loud noise was dangerous.

  Perhaps Toby ought to feel honored that they had sent so many, but he was too weary to feel anything at all. To run and be hunted down like an animal... no. He walked out into clear moonlight and stood with his hands raised to show he held no weapon. He had killed one of their own, and they would not be gentle.

  They streamed in around both sides of the cottage as if they were charging a Burgundian artillery post. He half expected them to ride him down, but they encircled him, and when they halted, he stood within a cordon of angry eyes, steaming horses, jingling harnesses. Hands pointed wheel locks at him, and swords. He held his hands up and his head down. He said nothing—what was there to say?